


The Naming of Things

by Zauzat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Character Study, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-29
Updated: 2012-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-13 03:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zauzat/pseuds/Zauzat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock disagree over when and how to let John know Sherlock is still alive. But the argument is really about much more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Naming of Things

"Sherlock, have you really thought through the implications of this? It is not going to work out well."

Mycroft regarded his brother with contained exasperation. Sherlock was lounged across an armchair, leg hooked over the armrest, looking mutinous. When he had still been running around the world, hunting down the many tentacles of Moriaty's network, it had been easier to feel concern for him. Now that he was holed up in Mycroft's Bayswater home waiting for the endgame to play out, concern was increasingly being drowned out by growing annoyance. 

"No. John does not get involved until this is all over. I've gone through hell to protect him, I'm not risking him now. You know how dangerous Moran is."

Mycroft sighed. John, it was always about John, every ounce of Sherlock's limited emotional capacity invested - dangerously over-invested in his opinion - in this one man. And as always Mycroft was trying to limit the likely fallout that Sherlock seemed so oblivious to. 

"I am aware of that. But you're taking a risk of entirely another sort. You seem to have some fantasy that you'll swan into the Baker street flat when it's all over, John will faint with shock, forgive you the minute he comes round, and it'll be tea and happiness forever after."

Mycroft could feel his own anger welling up, a slowly rising tide that he seemed helpless to stop. He'd held the fate of warring countries in his hands and had been able to deal with their problems with dispassionate pragmatism. Of all the world, it was only his little brother who could upset his equilibrium this badly, could betray him into arguing from his own decades of hurt rather than from his carefully controlled head. 

"I think you badly underestimate how bitterly angry John is going to be. How betrayed he will feel by your deception. Get him involved now, let him help to bring down Moran. If he's involved in saving your life, again, he might be less inclined to kill you when it's finally over." 

"John will understand," declared Sherlock dismissively. "He wants me alive, I've heard him say so standing at my grave."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, trying to keep his voice even and his logic simple. How could Sherlock be so intelligent in some ways and so emotionally blind in others? "Yes, he does, but wanting you alive is not the same as wanting to know that you deceived him so profoundly, rejected his help and support."

Mycroft knew he should leave it at that, that there was nothing to be gained by appealing to Sherlock on an emotional level, but this game had been playing out for so long and he was so tired - tired of the lies and the manipulations, tired of the disdain and the rejection.

"The spying on him at your gravesite isn't going to go down well, you know. It is not romantic, it's distasteful. Being grateful to hear you are alive is not the same as wanting to live with you again. John loved you and you knowingly left him drowning in grief. You broke his heart."   
"Oh like you know anything about love!" snapped Sherlock, typically ignoring the message he didn't want to hear. "You've no idea what it feels like to care for anyone. Let alone to have your heart broken."

"You're jumping to conclusions, Sherlock, you should take care with that," spat Mycroft. "I've loved two people in my life. Neither cared to love me back. I can make an educated guess at how John is going to feel about you when you stage your miraculous return."

"Two people? What two people?" demanded Sherlock disdainfully. "You've not loved any of the parade of bodies you've had warming your bed. And you may claim to love your queen and country, but it is the collective ideal, not any of the grubby individuals involved."

"How dare you question my loyalty? I learnt early enough that my duty would be to protect without expectation of acknowledgement or gratitude. My childhood was a perfect training for my current role." Mycroft listened to himself as if standing across the room, increasingly dismayed by his own loss of control and yet somehow unable to contain the flow of long suppressed emotions. Even knowing that each one he voiced would be yet another weapon for Sherlock to use against him could not stop the flood.

Sherlock surged to his feet, the better to spit his dislike into Mycroft's face. "You cared for no one during our childhood other than yourself. And you tried to mould me into a mini-you. Tried to teach me the same lessons. Fuck you. John cares for me. He'll understand."

"Oh yes, because you are _such_ a good judge of emotions. You've no idea who I loved, who I love. What makes you think you can guess John's feelings about all this?"

"Oh spare me," sneered Sherlock. "Who are these two poor souls afflicted with your _love_?"

"You, Sherlock. You and Mummy. But as neither of you cared to return the sentiment, there seemed little point in showing it. I am well aware than I am not loveable. You don't need to rub it in."

Mycroft turned abruptly and stalked out the room. In his anger and his exhaustion he had committed an unforgivable error. What had possessed him to give voice to such pathetic admissions? He walked out onto the balcony that ran along the side of the small courtyard garden which lay at the centre of his home. Gripping the railing tightly with both hands, he stared down at the small haven of peace he had so painstakingly created over the years. 

He knew what many people, straight-talking people of the likes of John Watson, thought of the kind of diplomacy he excelled in. He knew they despised all the obfuscation, all the delicate talking around the key point that was never mentioned. Why not just say when you mean, a man like John would ask, why not call a spade a spade? 

Because if you never actually named the spade, you could still pretend it was theoretical. Even when you all knew otherwise. Even when the spade lay in the dirt at your feet. The naming of a thing had power to it. Once named, it could not be unknown. Once named, you could no longer pretend. Once you'd admitted that you knew yourself to be impossible to love to the brother you loved, neither of you could un-know that fact. 

They'd never talk of it, he was sure. They'd act as if it had never happened. But they'd both know. 

He took a deep breath, trying to let the scents of his garden ease the tight knot that was choking his throat. It had been an extravagant rose garden when he'd bought the house and he'd taken quiet pleasure in having them all removed. He'd replanted the garden himself, putting in an understated profusion of scented herbs, lavender mixing in with basil, mint and chamomile sharing the small space with lemon balm. The garden offered a subtle understated beauty based on plants that were useful rather than ornamental. 

Normally the soft fragrances were enough to ease the tension of yet another difficult day, but tonight no amount of slow deep breaths could diminish the ache that was spreading through his chest. He had spent a lifetime building up his facade of impregnable marble control, only to reveal the pathetic jumble of hurt feelings that it concealed to the one man who could hurt him most.

He refused to look up when footsteps on the flagstones told him Sherlock had joined him on the balcony. After a long silence his brother finally spoke. "But if you are right about John, how will telling him now help? He'll still want nothing to do with me."

Mycroft stared down at his hands, clenched around the railings. And so it would go on. Sherlock's implicit concession that Mycroft might be right in his assessment of John was all the acknowledgement there would ever be of the fraught scene in the living room. This one stale crumb was supposed to be enough to convince him to continue on in his duty of care to his younger brother. And continue he would, crumbs or no crumbs. That was what duty meant.

"I wouldn't suggest telling him right _now_ ," Mycroft said, speaking down to the lavender bushes below him, proud of the steady neutrality of his voice. "We'll put the plan into execution. You'll run off at some point for a face-to-face confrontation with Moran against my advice. At that point, I'll scoop up John and his gun and throw him into the situation with no notice, too little information, and your life on the line. Just the way he likes it. And when he's finished saving your sorry skin, hopefully he'll be too invested to kill you immediately afterwards."

"Ah. Quintessentially manipulative, as usual." Sherlock sounded relieved, as if hoping his brother could be coaxed back into their normal barbed channels of communication. Mycroft continued to ignore him, waiting steadily in the hope that Sherlock would finally depart, leaving him in peace to lick at his wounds.

"If we do this, you'll keep him safe, right?" asked Sherlock at last. "Keep him protected?"

Mycroft was too tired and too disheartened to play their normal games of layered meanings. He answered with blunt honesty. "Of course. I'll protect both of you as best I can, as I do. I want you to be happy, Sherlock."

To his surprise, Sherlock moved to stand directly behind him, so close he could feel the warmth of his brother's body. Sherlock rested his forehead against the back of Mycroft's head and spoke quietly into the curve of his neck. "He and I are not the only ones who deserve happiness." 

Sherlock tentatively put his hand on Mycroft's shoulder, stroking the fine fabric of the suit jacket with his thumb. "You are the cleverest man I know," he said softly. "You've known me all my life. How can you believe such nonsense? How can you not deduce how I feel?" 

Mycroft felt the lump lodged in his throat slowly begin to dissolve, melting at the edges under the warmth of Sherlock's touch. "You are a blind spot to me, brother mine, as perhaps I am to you." 

He lifted a hand to his shoulder and carefully let his fingers slide in-between Sherlock's. Together they stood and let the smell of lavender fill the space around them. 

\- THE END -


End file.
